Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 6, December 1852

The power of association brought back with life-like force to the father’s mind the soft, warm grasp of those dimpled, baby hands. Alas! they were now cold in death. The past arose before him – his early ambition – his happy marriage – his rapid and flattering success – his hope for higher honors – his wish for a son to transmit the pride of his name – his gratified desire. Before its fulfillment, the strongest principle of his mind was the longing for a son. Afterward, he had coveted worldly honors – he had garnered wealth that he might transmit to him the one and the other. Often, after the duties of the day, had he repaired to that child’s chamber and watched his slumber. How often for hours had he nursed it in his arms with all a woman’s tenderness and gushing joy. All his softer feelings – all his holier and better ones – such as even in the proudest bosom find root, turned toward this child.

From the soft and sinuous outline of the half-naked babe in the picture, his eye wandered to the face of the angel-like mother. Those clustering curls, those sparkling eyes, those blooming cheeks – for a moment they appeared before him, joyous, brilliant, beautiful and beloved. He pressed his hand hard with the clinch of suppressed emotion over his eyes, as the heavy tears fell upon the rich carpet, evidencing that under the crust of worldly intrigues was a heart that beat strongly. The grave had claimed both the dear ones whose likeness he looked upon – and now only a daughter was left to him. This daughter he loved, it is true, but she could not inherit his name, and every new acquisition of fortune or fame rendered him only the more anxious to perpetuate those empty distinctions to his race.

“My son, my son!” murmured the worldly man, “would to God that I could have died for thee.”

At that instant the great hall bell sounded, and an attendant shortly afterward entered the apartment, saying, “The Indian chief Tuscalameetah is below, and would speak with Gen. Lincoln on business of private import.”

“Let him come up,” was the reply.

In a few moments, a man entered in the wild accoutrements of a native of the woods. His closely-shaven head was without ornament of any kind, with the exception of a solitary plume that crossed his crown and hung over his shoulders. A tomahawk and scalping-knife were in his belt. He wore a hunting suit of forest green, with moccasons gayly ornamented, and his buckskin leggings laced at the side were gartered above the knee. His eye was quick and restless, roaming on every side of him, as from the habit of mistrusting the sudden approach of an enemy.

Notwithstanding these symptoms of suspicion at the moment of his entrance, his countenance was not only without guile, but wore an expression of honesty. He passed from the door, and approached Gen. Lincoln with the dignified tread of his race.

“What bringeth thee here?” asked the proud man of the savage. “Hast thou accomplished the errand I entrusted thee with?”

“Tuscalameetah hath done thy bidding, and with the same arrow he has made sure his own revenge,” answered the other.

“I trust thou hast not committed butchery in this work,” said his employer. “The moment of extermination has not yet come, and I pray God it never may be our last resource. I but desired you to find me an orphan boy among the settlements whom I could make the heir of my name and wealth.”

“The red man acteth as he will, and cometh back as he sees fit,” replied the chief, haughtily. “But the son of the clearings shall bless thy hearth; yet the tomahawk and scalping-knife have not left their resting-place.”

“It is well,” responded Lincoln, “that thou hast shed no blood. And the child, is he fair? and wherefore doth he linger?”

“He shall be in thy wigwam ere the sun setteth again,” said Tuscalameetah. “The lily of the valley cannot compare with him in whiteness.”

“See that thou bringest him hither by the time thou hast specified,” rejoined the general, as opening an escritoir which stood on one side of the room, he handed the Indian a purse of gold. In a few moments he was again alone.

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CHAPTER III

    The child? —  Ay, that strikes home – my child – my child.Love and Hatred. By – .                     – Lose I not  With him what fortune could in life allot?  Lose I not hope, life’s cordial.Crabbe.

The morning following the mysterious disappearance of little Frank Winthrop, unusual symptoms of gloom might have been discerned in the village. The may-pole still stood trimmed with ribbons, but no children gamboled around it. There was a party of lads and a group of girls standing talking to each other – not merrily, but earnestly, on what appeared to be a subject of grave import. There were neither shouts nor laughs to be heard. And at almost every cottage door mothers might be seen with their infants in their arms, or old men and women shaking their heads sadly, and whispering to one another.

One called to mind how he had seen the child at the festival on the day previous, and what a pensive, half-ominous air his childish features wore. Another told that he had wondered much that one so young as he, should be bold enough to remain alone in the meeting-house with his baby companion. And the children went thither in little knots, and with half-fearful steps entered the pew where Ruth had left the lost boy sleeping.

As to the bereft mother, for many hours they had little expectation of her surviving, but grief is strong and she recovered. Some faint hope of his ultimate discovery seemed to animate her heart in this season of agony. The father took an active and energetic part in the search that was made by the villagers. It was a trait in his character to conceal deep grief, which with him, in this case, seemed to lead to action, not despair or despondency.

For weeks an investigation and search, led by himself, was followed up; but it proved without success. Those who have known the blank that follows the death of an idolized child – the uneasy void, the sense of desolation that will come when something beloved is missed at every turn – they can faintly guess how those unhappy parents pined as their faint and shadowy hope deferred from day to day till their hearts grew sick. With the mother, a removal from the scene of her late bereavement was tried, in order to discover whether change of place would rouse or cheer her. But alas! she was henceforth the same – a broken-hearted woman. The sympathy felt for her in the village was profound. As she appeared among them those who met her drew back to make way for her, and give her a softened greeting. Some shook her kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered as she glided by, and many cried, “God help you!” as she passed along.

Months passed on, and still no tidings of Frank Winthrop cheered the ears of the villagers. Years, too, in their course, gradually rolled on, and many changes were witnessed in the settlement – the old died and were buried – new children were added to the colonists – the young began to approach the season of maturity – yet still the vanished one was seen not, and tidings of him were heard in that place no more.

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CHAPTER IV

  I struck in a pathway half-worn o’er the sod  By the feet that went up to the worship of God.* * * * *  Such language as his I may never recall,  But his theme was salvation, salvation to all —  And the souls of his hearers in ecstacy hung  On the manna-like sweetness that fell from his tongue  Not alone on the ear his wild eloquence stole;  Enforced by each gesture, it sunk to the soul,  Till it seemed that an angel had brightened the sod,  And brought to each bosom a message from God.Mrs. Amelia Welby.  Seem’st thou dimly to remember    Some sweet spot ne’er seen before,  To have visited or known it,    Or in dreams or times of yore?  Doth a word send waking fancies,    Ringing thought’s familiar brain,  Faint and distant, yet familiar,    Where and when we seek in vain.Mrs. Acton Tindal.

We must allow an interval of sixteen years to pass away ere we again appear before our readers. To the quiet meeting-house mentioned in our opening chapter, we now revert. The chaplets and flowers we described previously, had long since withered away and returned to their parent dust, and with them, except in faint tradition and in the hearts of the bereaved parents, the name of the lost boy.

The humble building was now half-covered with ivy, and the small, secluded grave-yard was studded with simple stones and heaped with grassy mounds; showing that Time had not been idle in his allotted work. On one side lay the garden of the little house belonging to the pastor – a quiet dwelling shaded with sycamores, which threw large branches over the wall, and heavily shaded that side of the grave-yard.

The low bell had done ringing some time, and the congregation had all assembled. The small house overflowed with numbers, and what cannot be said of many such assemblies, contained but one class of human beings – all meeting on equal terms – none striving after the highest seat – difference of station having never been so much as named among them. These consisted chiefly of old men dressed in the respectable garb of the colonists, and women of different ages.

Opposite the reading-desk was Pastor Bartlett’s pew. The only occupants were his wife and daughter. The latter would have attracted attention in any assembly, for her beauty was of an uncommon cast. Her face was of that kind which is our ideal of a cherub’s – rounded, pure, innocent and happy. The long, golden hair absolutely sparkled in the light, while her skin realized the old poet’s exquisite description:

  “Fair as the snow whose fleeces clothe   Our Alpine hills; – sweet the rose’s spirit   Or violet’s cheek, on which the morning leaves   A tear at parting.”

Altogether nothing could be more peaceful and soothing than the effect produced by the congregation assembled in that little, unadorned place of worship, set off alone by the deep and expressive tones which proceeded from the reading-desk. The venerable Pastor Bartlett was a thin, pale, reverend looking person, with his locks thickly sprinkled with gray. He was reading a psalm from David, in the most beautiful and deeply earnest manner. His voice and pronunciation were those of a man of education, and his countenance refined and intellectual. But that which struck the beholder particularly about him, was the deep and unaffected seriousness with which he performed the holy office he was engaged in.

Whether it was the peaceful quiet and seclusion of the scene – whether it was their frame of mind, or whether it was the teaching voice of the reader we know not, but all paid the most devout attention. On the conclusion of the psalm, the preacher went up into his little, worm-eaten pulpit, and began. His text was, “Why will ye labor for that which is not bread?” There was something so seriously in earnest in his manner that the words seemed to go to the hearts of his hearers. He spoke of the emptiness, the insufficiency of pleasures which terminated here to satisfy a spirit created for an hereafter. He represented the powerlessness of those aids to support and tranquilize the heart in its sufferings and its dangers. He drew a living picture of the human heart – its secret restlessness and disquiet, its sense of the hollowness of all things. He then told them of that which was the true bread – of fountains whence flowed living waters – their immortal relations – their high destiny – their sonship and communion with the infinite God.

The clergyman was in the midst of his solemn discourse, when the attention of his hearers was attracted by loud and unusual sounds in the churchyard. There were the galloping of a horse, the clang of spurs, and the crack of a whip. The suspense was brief, for in a few moments a stranger entered the sanctuary.

The intruder was a young man of some twenty years of age. He had that air which, if not embodied in the words high bred, is beyond the reach of words; and his whole countenance was one to rivet attention in a crowd – the whole marking him no common person.

He paused at the entrance, for the crowded state of the little building rendered it somewhat difficult for him to perceive a vacant seat. Another moment, and the stalwort form of Deacon Winthrop was seen to arise and beckon the embarrassed stranger to a place by his side.

The slight interruption to which the intrusion of the young man had given rise subsided, and in another moment he was listening with the most respectful attention to the resumed discourse. At its close, supposing the services ended, he arose to withdraw. He had turned slowly to the door, when a doxology arose, led by a voice in the pastor’s pew in front of him, that arrested his steps. He listened, charmed and spell-bound – words came o’er his ear, words long unfamiliar to him, and but imperfectly remembered – words connected with his early and childish years – words that seemed as the ghosts of the past. He lingered after these had ended to catch a glimpse of the singer. Grace Bartlett was, indeed, a beautiful vision, as she thus stood among the now erect congregation, with her delicate bloom and rounded form, a picture of youth and hope. Her thoughts seemed turned from earth to heaven, and her eyes took the same direction. There was a something so pure, so spiritual about her at that moment, that an enthusiast might have thought her an inhabitant of upper air.

The stranger stood rooted to the spot as she turned. It was a face whose expression had long unconsciously haunted his young dreams. It was one that he had seen before, though where, he could not recall. Her eyes encountered his, and she blushed to her temples, an enchanting picture of bashful confusion.

Turning away embarrassed, the young man said to Deacon Winthrop, “I am to blame for having trespassed upon the hospitalities of your place of worship.”

“Nay, not so, young man,” replied the excellent deacon, “the word of God is free to all. But if you will allow me to offer you those of my house, we will be glad if thou wilt accompany us home, and dine with myself and my wife.”

The youth accepted the offer – and they left the place together.

Much conjecture was afloat that day at the various dinner-tables of the village, respecting the young stranger who was sharing Deacon Winthrop’s hospitality. The sudden appearance of any stranger in this primitive spot was sure to produce a sensation; and in this case, where the intruder was young and handsome, that sensation was proportionably increased.

Deacon Winthrop was beset by questions, to which he replied with a benign affability, “We must show this young man every attention. His religion is not ours, it is true, but he has a right to his own opinion.”

Many more of the villagers, through this advice, had soon an opportunity of judging of the stranger for themselves, for he remained for some time among them; and the curiosity respecting him at first evinced, if it continued any longer, ceased to be expressed in the admiration his courteous manners and agreeable conversation excited in the minds of all.

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CHAPTER V

    Viola. And dost thou love me?    Lysander... Love thee, Viola?  Do I not fly thee when my being drinks  Light from thine eyes? – that flight is all my answer!The Bride, Act 2.

It was one of the loveliest evenings in the loveliest month of a New England autumn. One of those delicious pet days, as they are fondly called, which, perhaps, from the uncertainty of their continuance, sometimes elevate the spirits more than the “long, sunny lapse of a summer day’s light.” Birds had been clamorous in melody, rare flowers had confidingly expanded their delicate petals to the genial glow that was abroad, and there seemed to be more light in the world than we are accustomed to enjoy. Yet that day had passed away – the warmer beams were gone, but their delightful influence still was felt in the soft, balmy temperature that remained. The birds had all vanished; yet even of them one would have said some soft charm still lingered in the dreamy hum which, though gradually becoming fainter, was still afloat; and if some delicate flowers had closed their bosoms from the breath of evening, others there were which gave out their fragrance.

On this delightful and balmy evening we introduce our readers to the cottage of Pastor Bartlett, adjoining the village church. It was remote from the main village, and shut out from its bustle and occupation – in this suiting the character and taste of its occupants. From its porch, where they were sitting, the pious man and his wife feasted their eyes with the refreshing green of the woods, whose boughs bent gracefully down to kiss the beautiful verdure that grew beneath, while the whole was softly bathed in a rich, warm flood of purple light.

The sunset hung lingering over the village, as if to contrast its own chamelion-like and gorgeous beauty with the fixed and placid scenery below. Many of the settlers might have been seen seated at the vine-clad doors of their simple dwellings, watching its fading splendor as it sunk behind the tall trees which almost hid from view the pastor’s cottage at the considerable distance we have described.

The excellent clergyman and his partner were sitting on a bench on the left of the porch, screened from observation by the cool boughs of a sycamore, the shadows of which half covered the little lawn that separated the precincts of the cottage from those of silent death. Above the white-washed pailings rose the village church. The old man and his wife were, as we have said before, calmly enjoying the beauty of the evening, the freshness of the air, and not least, perhaps, their own peaceful thoughts – the spontaneous children of a contemplative spirit, and a quiet conscience. Theirs was the age in which we most sensitively enjoy the mere sense of existence, when the face of nature, and a passive conviction of the benevolence of our Great Father, suffice to create a serene and ineffable happiness which rarely visits us till we have done with the passions; till memories, if more alive than heretofore, are yet mellowed in the hues of time, and Faith softens into harmony all their asperity and harshness; till nothing within us remains to cast a shadow over the things without; and on the verge of life, the angels are nearer to us than of yore. There is an old age which has more youth of heart than youth itself!

At length the pair simultaneously arose, and withdrew into the cottage, for sunset was their appointed season for evening devotion. The old man seated himself in his large arm-chair, but his wife lingered standing near the open lattice, until the gloom of twilight was gathering over the sky, and continued to gaze down the path leading to the village with intentness and eagerness. At last, as though weary of her employment, she turned away with a smothered sigh, saying, “Husband, what can detain Grace?”

“I know not,” was the disturbed reply of the venerable man at this suggestion. “There is no fear that bodily harm can have come to her, for it is now a long time since we have had any incursions from the Indians. But I am inclined to fear for her soul’s happiness. Has it not occurred to you, wife,” he continued, “that Grace’s relaxed interest in the duties of religion, together with her repeated absences from home, originate in some cause not purely accidental. For myself, my suspicions have been attracted toward the stranger who in the last few weeks has appeared among us. She has already informed us of their having had more than one interview at the dwellings of some of my people in the village. We must see to it that they meet no more. He must have no further opportunity of awakening an interest in the unsuspecting bosom of our daughter.”

There was a tone of deep despondency in the voice which spoke these words – for recently the change in their child had become marked. Unusual absences from her home – a sadness foreign to her natural cheerfulness of manner – a sudden and frequent outbreaking of tenderness toward her mother and himself – tears often springing overflowingly to her eyes – all these circumstances could do no more than excite uneasiness and anxiety in the minds of her parents.

A low murmuring sound was presently heard at the little wicket-gate outside, and immediately after the door was softly unlatched, and Grace Bartlett glided into the room.

The anxious glances of the pastor and his wife at once discovered by the light of the fire, which blazed brightly upon the hearth-stone, that the young girl’s eyes were dimmed with a slight expression of sorrow, and that her lovely cheek was a shade paler than its wont. She moved gently forward, knelt down at her father’s side, and kissed his brow.

“Grace,” said the old man, sadly, as he laid his hand among her beautiful tresses, “we have awaited your return, my child; it is past our customary hour for prayer. Do you tire of the happiness of home, that you seek for enjoyment elsewhere?” he added, as he gazed down on the face of the lovely being so emphatically the light of his home.

The girl’s countenance betrayed a confused consciousness as her beautiful “forget-me-not” eyes encountered those of her parent; but she made no reply, and a moment after arose from her knees. Untying her bonnet and hanging it against the wall, while her golden hair, disobedient to previous arrangement in modest bands by its owner, fell luxuriantly around her neck, she took a seat to signify that she was now prepared to join her parents in the devotions of the evening.

At that moment the little low-roofed apartment, so unostentatious in its old-fashioned furniture, so exact in its modest neatness – its bare walls unornamented with ought save a piece of faded tapestry, or an occasional nail whereon was hung sundry bunches of dried herbs and bags of rose-leaves – this, with the girl in her youthful simplicity and grace, kneeling by the side of her venerable parents, the eyes of all closed, and their hands clasped in devotion, while the old man’s lips were parted in the act of prayer, formed altogether as complete a picture as possible of colonial economy and piety.

The aspect of the room was homely but pleasant, with its low casement, beneath which stood the dark shining table that supported the large Bible in its green-baize cover, the Concordance, and the last Sunday’s sermon in its ebon case. By the fire-place stood the elbow-chair, before which the minister was kneeling, with its needle-work cushion at the back. Fifty or sixty volumes ranged in neat shelves on one end of the wall, and a half-a-dozen chairs, and a table, completed the furniture of the apartment. But it was the occupants who made the effect of the scene, in their pious act of evening devotion.

When the prayer was ended, Grace hastily withdrew, as if to avoid all further questions. But her anxious mother was not long in following her. She entered the little chamber of the young girl softly. Her daughter heard her, and started from the chair she had taken.

The gentle matron drew her affectionately to her side as she seated herself on the low bedstead, saying, “Grace, thou wast not educated to have any secrets from thy fond parents. Tell me, then, my child, who accompanied thee to the gate this evening?”

The girl hesitated for some moments, during which a momentary blush suffused her face and neck. Then, hiding her face in her mother’s bosom, she timidly replied, “It was the young stranger; he met me on the path leading from the village, and attended me home.”

The mother’s face evinced a troubled expression. “Oh, Grace, my daughter,” she said, “thou shouldst not have permitted him to do so. Thy father hath ever said since that young man’s arrival in the village, that it did not become any of our sect to hold ungodly converse with the sons of Baal.”

“But, mother,” urged the fair transgressor, “the stranger belongs not to that impious race. Every Sabbath, since his sojourn in the settlement, his attendance at the place of weekly worship has been regular and respectful.”

“My child!” ejaculated her mother, in a voice tremulous with sorrow, “thou hast yet to learn to beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Satan sometimes transformeth himself into an angel of light to steal away the affections of the innocent. But,” added the pious matron, “I will chide thee no more for the present. Thy father and I will henceforth be more watchful of thee. Commend thyself to God, and seek thy pillow for the night.” So saying, she kissed her daughter and withdrew.